


Rainy Day Baking

by orphan_account



Category: NASCAR RPF
Genre: Crack, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-16
Updated: 2012-10-16
Packaged: 2017-11-16 11:37:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/539021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crack!fic. This is what happens when fangirls get cracky. Inspired by a series of tweets from Jen, after Kasey’s rather odd tweet during the rainy night that wouldn't end at Watkins Glen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rainy Day Baking

The text comes while I’m still standing around in my garage stall, watching Kenny and Keith work on the car, which is ridiculous, because this rain isn’t letting up.   
  
_Bored._  
  
I start to ask why he’s not busy helping with his car, and then I realize I’m kidding myself-- none of us are really “busy” with our cars on a day like this. Well, maybe Kyle Busch is, but he’s the guy who tells his crew chief to put on a helmet and come over the wall when things aren’t going well, so it wouldn’t be surprising for him to be under the car working on it when it’s raining, probably telling Dave how he’s wrong and Kyle’s right.  
  
 _So?_ I reply.   
  
Does he want me to bring him a coloring book or something?   
  
_Come over..._   
  
I sigh and shove my phone back in my pocket. I know him. He’ll pout until he gets his way. Oh, people say I do the same thing, but they have no idea how much of a baby Hamlin can be if he wants something and someone’s not giving it to him. Kenny hears my sigh and waves me off, pointing to the exit of the garage. I might as well go over there and see what Hamlin’s doing, because otherwise he’ll just keep texting me.   
  
I stop by my coach and change out of my firesuit and into jeans and a t-shirt. No need to sit around uncomfortable, I figure. As I’m on the way out the door, my phone beeps again. I roll my eyes, and without even looking, I know who it’s from. Again.  
  
 _I’m making brownies, Kahne. You know you want some._  
  
Damn him. He knows that if I wasn’t on my way before, I would definitely be now. I don’t know if I really trust his ability to cook anything, but I really shouldn’t talk-- Kale still tells everyone about how I set the kitchen on fire trying to make PopTarts in our first apartment in North Carolina.   
  
A couple minutes later I knock on his door, only to hear It’s open! followed by a string of curse words that are almost enough to make me blush.   
  
I step up into the coach and see Denny fanning his hand around, a blister already forming on his thumb.   
  
“Haven’t you ever heard of a pot holder?” I ask, sitting down across from the steaming pan of brownies. I may be dumb enough to nearly burn an apartment down cooking PopTarts, but I do have the sense to use something to grab a hot pan.   
  
He flips me off as he digs a knife out of a drawer.   
  
“That’s not very nice,” I say, teasing him. “You were so bored and wanted someone to come keep you company, and that’s how you repay them?”   
  
He sits down and digs the knife into the pan of brownies, cutting them into nine squares. “Get real. You only came because I said there was food.”   
  
“Maybe. Getting to see you burn your hand like a dumbass was a nice bonus, though.” I look down at the pan, and frown. “That’s not an even number. Somebody’s getting more than the other person.”  
  
He quickly cuts one of the squares in half and gives me a shit-eating grin, like he’s just solved all the mysteries of the world.   
  
“That’s still not an even number.”   
  
He throws his hands up, the knife clattering down on the table. “For fuck’s sake. You can have the extra one, then. Just quit your bitching.”  
  
It’s hard to hide my triumphant smile, but I manage, just barely.  
  
Denny dumps the brownies on a plate and motions me over to the couch. I follow because... food, of course. He flips the TV onto the Olympics, and offers the plate to me. I take a brownie for each hand because I’m not dumb; he’s not going to cheat me out of my extra brownie, and I know he’ll try.  
  
I take a bite out of one, then the other, and Denny shakes his head. “I guess that’s one way to make sure you get all your brownies.”  
  
I nod and stick a brownie-covered tongue out at him. Meanwhile, he’s making his way slowly through a brownie, chewing thoughtfully. I’ve finished one and two and have moved on to three and four as he lazily picks up his second brownie.  
  
“I could run that fast,” I say, gesturing at the TV, where the track and field events are taking place on the other side of the world. Denny snorts, and I’m tempted to throw a brownie at him.  
  
“Yeah, right, Kahne. That’s why you won that triathlon you and Jimmie did, right?”   
  
I take a bite of brownie number four. “That’s not just running. That’s biking and swimming in a damn lake. I’d like to see you try it!” And really, I would like to see that, since he thinks he’s Mr. Buff Athlete. Maybe he can hold his own on the basketball court, but he’d get his ass kicked in a triathlon. I’d put money on it.   
  
“Whatever,” he mumbles, looking out the window. “If it keeps on raining, you might get to see. There’s gonna be a lake out there, and I’d beat you at swimming it.”   
  
“You’re an idiot,” I say, and finish the fourth brownie, eyeing the plate of brownies until Denny reaches over and grabs two of them, shoving them into his mouth, crumbs of them falling down onto his shirt as he chews. “And you’re disgusting, too.”  
  
“Shut up, Kahne! Like you weren’t doing the same thing!” Or at least I think that’s what he says, because it’s mostly a garbled mess of sounds and small pieces of brownie escaping his mouth.   
  
I look back over at the TV, and suddenly things look a little strange in London. Everything’s moving slower. Those runners... should definitely be running faster if they want to win a medal. I start to say something about it, but Denny makes a noise beside me like he’s choking, and it distracts me. He coughs up a piece of brownie in his hand, and looks down at it before swallowing what’s in his mouth, and then eats the half-chewed chunk in his hand. Yeah, I was right-- he’s completely disgusting.  
  
And then I notice something else odd-- the crumbs on his shirt are moving. I don’t mean he’s moving, and the crumbs are moving. The crumbs are moving on their own, like little ants made of brownie crumbs.   
  
“Man... this is going to sound weird, but... I think those brownies are alive. They’re crawling on your shirt.” My voice sounds sort of strange to me, but I’m still stuck on the brownie ants currently crawling on Denny.  
  
He laughs, a short barking sound, and my head whips around. Or I try to make it whip around, but instead it’s like it has a mind of its own, and it turns at a leisurely pace. I find myself staring into glassy green eyes.  
  
He laughs again. “Those brownies were my special recipe, Kahne. I used part of my secret stash!” He makes air quotes as he says “secret stash”, and then dissolves into giggles.  
  
Secret stash? What the hell is he talking about? He wouldn’t have...  
  
“They’re pot brownies!” he crows, and I would punch him in the nose if I could convince my fist to ball up and my arm to raise. Lucky for him, neither seems to want to cooperate with my brain.   
  
“Are you trying to get us both banned for life?!” I ask, my voice going up so high it squeaks. He’s got to know that with Allmendinger’s screw up, we’re all being watched like hawks.   
  
He laughs and clumsily pats my leg. “Relax, Kahne. I’ve got it under control. I know a guy.”   
  
I’m not sure what that’s supposed to mean, what this _guy_ he _knows_ is supposed to do about keeping us from both losing our rides. I’m about to ask, but something outside the window catches my eye. I spring up from the couch, or try to, but it’s more of a slow rising to a standing position, and walk over to the window, staring out at the rainy landscape.   
  
“Do you see that?” I ask excitedly, pointing at a flock of geese that are just chilling on the ground between the coaches.   
  
Denny gets up, ambles over to the window, and looks out. “Yeah, it’s still raining. So what?”  
  
How is he not seeing these geese? They’re right there! And there’s a crapload of them! “No,” I exclaim, shaking my head. “The geese. Right there between your coach and the next one. Look!” I point again, tapping on the window, my finger directly over one particular goose. “That one’s dancing! It’s trying to moonwalk!”   
  
“There’s no geese, Kahne.” He shakes his head and laughs. “Dancing... ballet... oh man, I’ve gotta show you something I found.” He walks off, and I’m still staring at the dancing goose. It’s moved on from the moonwalk, and it’s doing the Cha Cha Slide now. I start singing the song, but Denny interrupts before I can start dancing with the goose. He shoves his phone against the window, in front of my face and blocking my view of the dancing goose.   
  
“Look at this!” he says, tapping the phone against the window. “Ballet shoes!” I’m staring at a picture of a chubby pre-teen who is wearing, you guessed it, ballet shoes. Black ones. Shany took ballet, so I know what they look like, though I didn’t realize they came in colors other than pink. “It’s Mikey’s sixth grade picture!” he yells, and I want to tell him to keep it down, because he’s going to scare the geese away, but I sneak a glance and they’re still there.   
  
“That’s not really Michael Waltrip, is it?” I ask, because I really can’t tell. The picture doesn’t look old enough to be Michael, but who knows? For all I know, it could be a picture of Denny, though I really can’t see him doing ballet.   
  
I never do get an answer, though. Denny giggles wildly, and then starts doing something on his phone.   
  
Suddenly, that seems like a really good idea. Maybe Denny doesn’t see these geese, but someone has to, right? It’s not everyday you see a huge flock of geese, and one of them is dancing.   
  
I start to text Bowyer, to ask him if he’s seen them, but then I realize that leaves a lot of people out. Instead, I take to Twitter.   
  
_anyone seen any geese lately?_  
  
The only answer I get is from Bowyer’s girlfriend, asking if I’m bored.   
  
I’m not bored-- I’m special. Geese dance for me, and that’s so much better than ballet shoes.


End file.
